Backstage 35: Echoes from the Battleground
by Aadler
Summary: In the aftermath of a thwarted apocalypse, life — and un-life — goes on.
1. Graduation Day

**Echoes from the Battleground  
><strong>by Aadler  
><strong>Copyright April 2012<strong>

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: Characters from <em>Buffy the Vampire Slayer<em> are property of Joss Whedon,  
>Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.<p>

**This story was done for the Choose-Your-Author Ficathon, at the request of tiny_white_hats**.

* * *

><p><strong>Graduation Day<strong>

i

The sound, though muffled, was sufficiently loud and startling that Curtis Moore's pen skidded on the entry in the account book. He sighed, and set aside the pen. Good thing that hadn't happened while he was working with a customer; in several phases of the process, a jerk that violent could cause damage that the family would not appreciate. Of course, he had long experience in preparing … damaged subjects for viewing, but there was nothing to be gained by making unnecessary work for himself. He reached for his desk phone, confirmed the label next to one of the buttons, and pressed it for a pre-set number.

Unsurprisingly, it was answered on the first ring. "Sunnydale Funeral Home, this is George Mathisson speaking."

Moore had several times reflected on the questionable judgment of anyone who would pay advertising revenues to publicize the name of the _city,_ rather than a business name distinct in itself, but none of that showed in the professional courtesy of his tone. "Curtis," Moore identified himself. "Did you hear that?"

"Yes," the other man acknowledged. "Do you know what it was?"

"Not so far," Moore admitted. "But if I remember right, high school graduation should be happening about now. That would be, um, high-yield. But even if it was just a city building —"

He didn't have to spell it out any further. "I'll start calling the others," Mathisson told him. "And I'll get back to you if anyone has further details."

"Thank you," Moore said, and hung up. If the other men on the list were as quick on the uptake (and, by now, they very well should be), his task should be completed in less than another five minutes. The owner of Moore's Chapel was at the top of the phone tree; with Sunnydale Funeral Home notified, he needed only to call Heritage Funeral Home, Bonn-Wheeling Memorials, and Restfield Funeral Chapel. Each of them would make three or four other calls, and then more substantial preparations would begin.

Like hotels in major cities, and some airlines, the funeral homes in Sunnydale had an arrangement whereby they would cover for each other in the event of what might be politely called overflow. It didn't happen often, but if much more than half a dozen 'customers' were delivered within a few days' time, a single establishment might find its facilities taxed. In such an event, other businesses in their informal cartel would quietly handle the excess, for a pre-agreed service fee, so that the overloaded business could maintain face.

In addition to which, there was always the possibility of an event so severe that they might _all_ need to work together. It wasn't something any of them spoke of, but the recognition was there in the background, discernible by the things that were never explicitly stated in the soft, circumspect conversations among those in the trade.

Curtis Moore's children were grown, his grandchildren being raised well away from Sunnydale, so he had no personal stake in this. All the same, as an essentially decent man, he found himself praying — as he had done so many times before — that business would not suddenly become _too_ good.

ii

When the motel room phone rang, Dawn dived across the bed for it, but her mother was even faster. Joyce Summers snatched the handset from the cradle, millimeters from her youngest daughter's lunging fingers, and snapped, "Yes, hello, yes! Buffy?"

And Buffy's voice came over the line, a relief so enormous that Joyce felt the room begin to spin around her: "It's okay, Mom. We're okay. We're all fine."

Dawn was babbling questions, but Joyce silenced her with the flat-palm STOP gesture. "Are you in the hospital?" she demanded. "Or _at_ the hospital with any of the others?"

From the other end of the phone, she could hear the wariness in her daughter's tone. "Nnnooo, like I said, we're all fine. Why —?"

"If you're not at the hospital, then go home. We'll meet you there in half an hour."

This time, the tone was one of bewilderment, quickly giving way to exasperation. "Half an hour? from Los Angeles? Mom, I _told_ you —!"

"I took Dawn out of town," Joyce said firmly. "I did that much, just like you said, but I wasn't about to go all the way to L.A. Don't raise your voice to me, young lady! It's done, and it came out all right. We're on our way home now. Be there." And she hung up.

"Told you," Dawn scoffed as her mother turned to the bed to grab up two suitcases that had never been unpacked. The twelve-year-old's face was set in an expression of exaggerated disdain. "Major build-up, no delivery. Total Drama Buffy, as usual."

"No," Joyce said. "Get the door." Dawn obediently pulled it open, and Joyce carried the suitcases out to her Jeep, parked five feet away. "Something happened there, something big. It may not be as bad as she thought it would be, but it was bad."

"How can you tell?" Dawn insisted.

"Her first words were to tell me she was okay." Joyce keyed the remote to unlock all the doors, began stowing the suitcases in the back seat. "You don't say that unless there was a serious chance it could have gone the other way." She closed the door, got in on the driver's side. "Belt in," she instructed her daughter, who had automatically taken her own seat. "I'm not going to break the speed limit, but I don't plan to go under it, either, not till we're home again."

iii

They had helped the others in the search for any wounded who might still need help, until the growing presence of police and other rescue personnel made the process not only unsurpassably difficult, but unnecessary. They'd had the 'moment' with Buffy, Xander, Cordelia, Giles, and then separated from them when the moment passed. Now Willow sat with Oz in his van, the two of them sharing silence and weariness and relief and, perhaps, just the slightest touch of uncertainty.

"I never thought to ask," Willow said finally. "With, you know, how crazy things have been. Your parents, were they —?"

"Elsewhere," Oz filled in. "Told 'em graduation was no big deal, said this was probably a great time to do that Disneyland thing that'd been on the back burner for, like, forever." He smiled. "My dad, he gave me a look and said, 'Hm. You need anything?', and I said, 'Nah, we're on it,' and that was all he needed. They took to the road this morning."

"They knew?" Willow asked. "I mean … they understood what you, well, what you weren't saying, and they went along with it?"

"Yeah," he agreed. "We got the communication thing down pretty solid. You can do a lot with just an eyebrow, if the person on the other side knows the code." He regarded Willow with gentle concern. "And your folks?"

"At a conference," Willow told him. "It was already on their schedule, so I just didn't remind them that graduation was today. That part was easier than anything else we've had to deal with this past week." She put her hand on his. "You should phone your parents, let them know you're okay."

Oz shrugged. "Already did. Will you —?"

"I don't think so," Willow said. "In fact, I think I'll just wait for them to get home, see if they even notice there was a disaster while they were gone."

An eyebrow lifted (and, yes, it did communicate quite a bit to someone in the know). "Cold."

"I see it as more a matter of scientific observation," Willow countered, with more than a trace of tartness. "You know, watch to see if the trend plays out."

Oz nodded. "Well, you should at least go home, so if they hear something and call, you can tell them nothing happened to you."

"I can do that," Willow admitted. Then, a beat later: "And, and you could stay with me. I mean, as in stay the night."

Oz didn't answer for almost half a minute, but Willow knew him well enough by now that it didn't unnerve her; he would simply take the time to fully consider a matter before rendering an answer. At last he said, "That sounds good. Our first actual, you know, night together." He gave her a glance. "Only, I'd kind of like it if we could just sleep."

Despite all her assurance, all her trust in him, Willow felt a flutter of uneasiness. "You're losing interest in me already? The thrill is gone that fast?" Still, she kept tone and expression humorous: there was to be NO PRESSURE here. (Anyway, wasn't that the guy's job …?)

Oz put his arm around her, pulled her close. "Thrill's still there. In fact, it's requesting an encore right now. But … We've done panic sex, and we've done we-may-be-dead-in-an-hour sex … I don't want our next time together to be survival sex. More like, you're-the-one-I-want-to-be-with sex." He placed a kiss on her forehead. "Since, you know, you're the one I want to be with."

"Let's see if I've got this right," Willow said. "You're turning down my heartfelt offer of further carnal bliss — for now — but you're asking if you can sleep with me."

A smile. "Pretty much."

"Well, okay then." She turned her head on his shoulder to look up at him. "But in fairness to you, I should warn you that I've never slept with a man before."

"So you're saying tonight will be your first time." The kiss was on her mouth now, but still gentle. "Hey … works for me."

iv

The signs on Interstate 90 were beginning to mark the distance to Spokane International Airport, which meant that Anya Christina Emanuella Jenkins (as she was now known) was within fifty miles of where I-90 intersected US-95. Once she got onto 95, she could make it to the Canadian border in less than two and a half hours. Maybe that would be far enough, maybe not, but she had no intention of stopping before then.

Much as she (still!) hated men, Anya envied them the convenience of a penis. A man could pee in a bottle while driving, dump the contents out the window, and keep on motoring. A woman had to spend at least a couple of minutes in one or another horrendous gas station restroom during the unavoidable fuel stops, especially if she was pounding down energy drinks to stave off sleep. Still, she'd managed to keep going for twenty hours now, and willpower would carry her the rest of the way.

She didn't expect to like Canada very much, but given how limited her funds were, it would probably be some time before she could afford to travel much farther. One thing was absolutely certain, however: regardless of whether the Ascension took place or the Slayer and her idiotic hangers-on succeeded in stopping it, there was absolutely no reason for Anya to ever, EVER return to Sunnydale, California.

Even without a Hellmouth, the place would still be a revolting pit, and she was better off with it far behind her.


	2. the Day After

**the Day After**

v

Giles had a book open in his hand when he answered the door, and he was very different from his usual tidy appearance; his hair was messily ruffled, he was coatless with his shirtsleeves rolled up, vest and collar unbuttoned, and … "You know," Buffy observed, tilting her head to one side, "I'm trying to remember if I've ever seen you without a tie before."

"I'm sure you have," Giles said, stepping aside to allow her to enter. (Without, she noted, an explicit invitation. She doubted he'd done it deliberately, it was probably habit by now; still, with the rain and the overcast, not entirely un-apt.) "Given the varied events of the last few years, not to mention the crises mounting over the past several days."

"But all good now." She stepped inside, then stopped. Other books, piles of them, covered most available surfaces and barely left space to walk between the stacks. "Wow. I thought we'd put everything in my basement, at least till we could make better arrangements."

"Oh, we did." Giles glanced again at the open page before him, then dutifully returned his attention to his guest. "But there were some I didn't trust out of my hands — too rare, or too dangerous — and others that were … well, while we were sorting through the volumes, I found myself setting aside those that caught my particular interest."

Buffy found an open space, sat down. "All _these?_ What, the Time-Life series wasn't enough?"

He smiled, and found a seat of his own. "Surprisingly enough, they didn't quite cover the subject matter in, er, definitive detail." He indicated the book he still held. "This, for instance: when we set the spirit of Gabriela de Santos to rest, we thought that was the end of it, but this volume brings up some subsidiary matters we shall certainly want to address in due course. And there's another I've been trying to find, as it might have some bearing on a call I received from the Council of Watchers some weeks ago, warning that there had been signs of a substantial invocation being made in this area to the demon Gluupthri. At the time I assumed it was connected to the Mayor's plans for Ascension, but —"

"Giles," she interrupted gently. "From the way you sounded on the phone, I'm thinking you didn't ask me over so we could talk about this Gluestick guy."

"No," he agreed. He placed a bookmark, and closed and set aside the volume in question. "No, you're quite correct." He looked to her. "Have you visited Faith in hospital?"

"Only in my dreams," Buffy told him. "She was a whole lot nicer there. Why mess with a good thing?"

Giles disregarded the forced flippancy. "I just wondered if you feel any …" He trailed off, searching for words. "If you might have … questioned your decision."

Buffy's expression firmed. "Not for a second."

Giles went on, as if, once begun, he was determined to force through the subject. "You saw what happened to her, the psychological impact, following the accidental death of Allan Finch. I explained to you what can happen under such circumstances, the effect on a Slayer of going outside her mandate and killing non-supernatural entities. Yet you still deliberately set out to end the life of another human being."

"Not a human being," Buffy corrected, saying each word with distinct, biting precision. "Faith."

Giles nodded. "I see. So Faith doesn't qualify as human. Why?"

"Uh, well, let's see." Buffy waved her hands. "Because she's a murderer? Because she betrayed us to throw in with Big 'E' Evil? Because she was trying to _kill_ us, and probably the whole graduating class in the bargain?"

"All dreadful things," Giles acknowledged, "and meriting stringent action in response. If you had killed her in the process of preventing those events, that would have been both understandable and justifiable. But you didn't say that: you said 'not a human being'. That is the reason I wished to speak to you, because I suspected such a, a cast of thought."

Buffy made an impatient gesture. "What does it matter? We fought, she lived, we stopped the Ascension. That's a win on all counts."

"But you've not answered the question," Giles insisted. "Do you truly see Faith as not human? And if so, why not?"

Buffy's mouth set, and she leaned forward to speak, calm but clear. "Because she's not one of the people we're supposed to protect. Not defenseless, not innocent, and if you want to come right down to it, not normal. She's in a different category. She's a Slayer. She _is_ a 'supernatural entity', and if she goes off the reservation, that makes her fair game."

Rather than show unease or disagreement, Giles was nodding. "In point of fact, that precisely mirrors the Council's thinking on the subject."

Startled, Buffy sat back. "Then what's with the whole intervention deal?"

"What concerns me are the underlying implications of your attitude." He could see bewilderment in her face, and he went on: "As you said, Faith is a Slayer. So are you."

"Uh-huh," Buffy said, a tiny frown showing that she still didn't understand.

"You are a Slayer," Giles repeated. "That is a high and terrible calling … but it does not mean you are less than human, or even _other_ than human. I would be the instant enemy of anyone who tried to claim that it did, so you can see that I would wish to be certain that _you_ hold no such opinion."

Comprehension showed at last, but Buffy's eyes were troubled. After long moments, she said in a low voice, "The Slayer's power comes from darkness. That's what your books say, and I've always been able to feel it in myself."

"We all fight the darkness inside," Giles said. "Some of us more successfully than others; you've had ample opportunity to see examples in our various experiences here. But you —" Now he was the one leaning forward. "You are not simply human, you are the _best_ of humanity. I'm proud of you, and proud to serve alongside you. It is of utmost importance that you know that."

Most of the shadows left Buffy's expression. Most. "The 'best of humanity'?" she repeated, one eyebrow raised.

"The best of the things that make us human." Giles shrugged. "Of course, I wouldn't point to you as an exemplar of grammar, or scholarship, or even suitable dress, but on the whole —"

That brought the laugh he had hoped to elicit, but it stopped after a few seconds. The Slayer looked at him with eyes that were deep and ancient, and she said, "I hope you're right." Again, more quietly: "I hope you're right."

vi

It was raining at the rubble where the high school had stood. (Well, all over Sunnydale, but this was where Walt Burrows happened to be standing at the moment.) Downside: it was _raining,_ the kind of slow drizzle that looked like it might continue all day long. Uncomfortable, inconvenient, and demoralizing. Upside: the intermittent downpour seemed to keep down the smell, at least a bit.

Beside him, the California Emergency Management Agency representative wrinkled his nose and observed, "God, what a stink. What do you think? underground gases venting?"

Burrows gave the man a sidelong look. "Could be," he replied cautiously. "There are a lot of caverns running under Sunnydale, and every now and then something comes up to the surface."

"Nasty stuff," the state man agreed. "Hallucinations are nothing new, I hear about that a lot, but explosion? Not so often."

Burrows wasn't quite sure what to make of this character: Heckledorn, that was the name. They'd crossed paths now and then in the course of business, but never before dealt with each other directly. Considering how things were usually done in Sunnydale, the man had either been assigned to this town because he was too incompetent for anything else, or was taking payoffs to not ask awkward questions. Heckledorn had a way about him, though, a way of looking over a situation and then making the right noises while a saturnine cast to his face all but openly ridiculed the things he himself was saying …

"I leave that to geologists and whoever else," Burrows said. "Me, I just deal with construction." And, in this case, demolition as well; there was a crapload of wreckage that would have to be cleared away before anything new could be built here.

"We'll see," Heckledorn answered. He surveyed the smoking ruins. "How many fatalities from this mess?"

"I don't have the official figures —" Burrows began, and Heckledorn waved it away, saying, "Just what you know. I'll get the official tally from … well, whoever winds up in charge, with the mayor dead and no new deputy mayor appointed yet." He looked to Burrows. "So?"

"I've heard about thirteen bodies," Burrows admitted. "Mostly neck or head trauma, they say. And there are other people the witnesses swear are dead — the Mayor, the school principal, several students — even though we don't have bodies for those." He didn't look directly at the other man. "Crushed in the wreckage, maybe, or vaporized in the explosion. Maybe even lost in the shuffle in some of the local mortuaries, I hear that's happened a few times."

"So we're likely to get our best casualty count from how many are still missing once survivors are accounted for." Heckledorn tapped his foot, peering through the steady, dismal rain. "Any lasting effects from the, the 'fumes' —" (By God, Burrows could _hear_ the quote-marks in the other man's voice!) "— that had people raving about a giant snake?"

Burrows was becoming more and more uncomfortable. "That's … I mean, you'd have to talk to the hospital —"

"Damn it, Walt," Heckledorn snapped, "just tell me what you know. I'm trying to pick out a starting-point here, and I can't do it with everybody tap-dancing."

Burrows sighed, took a deep breath, and said, "I understand they're having to treat some for hysteria, but I haven't heard of any lasting _physical_ effects." He shook his head, and added casually, "Funny thing, most of the hysteria seems to be in the parents. The high school kids themselves are holding up pretty well." (Translation: keeping their mouths shut.) "And most of them aren't mentioning any giant snake, either."

"Yeah," Heckledorn said. "Funny thing." From his voice, he didn't see the humor. Maybe the body-count had jolted him out of his normal attitude. After a few more silent minutes, he said, "If you already had the plans, and a go-ahead, how long would it take you and your crews to build a new school?"

Burrows thought about it. There had been a lot of financial incentives available for construction companies willing to operate under the hazards found in this city; if Richard Wilkins really was dead, would that still hold? On the other hand, Wilkins' departure might actually reduce those hazards, once word got around … "If the permits go smooth," he said, "and we don't get bogged down in lawsuits or environmental impact studies … I've got some good people, and we know a lot about how to deal with the kinds of complications you run into in Sunnydale … I'd say two, maybe two and a half years. Give or take." After a moment, he qualified, "Just from a quick run-through, while we were checking for survivors in the wreckage, I saw a lot of, um, unidentified biological material. A lot. We'd probably want to take extra precautions with that."

Heckledorn didn't ask for clarification, which confirmed some of Burrows' suspicions. After more minutes of consideration, he said, "Start working out how you'd deal with it. Start getting plans drawn up with the city council and the school board. Take your time, because I'm sealing this place for six months, minimum." He turned to Burrows. "If nothing new crops up, if no people or pets die from 'toxic materials' left over from the explosion —" (there were the quote-marks again) "— I'll probably sign off to allow new construction."

Heckledorn looked back at the reeking rubble before them — _Will six months be enough for that smell to go away?_, Burrows wondered — and added, soft-voiced, "Though why anyone would want to send their kids to school in this hell-hole, God only knows."

vii

The city stretched out below him, a diamond latticework of light and life and movement. From the height of the observatory, Angel could see the Pacific Ocean to the southwest, and all the way to the horizon at the southeast. He had driven to the city the previous night, in Mayor Wilkins' own vintage 1967 Plymouth Belvedere GTX convertible, and spent the day in the lower levels of a parking garage. Tomorrow night he would begin the process of locating more spacious lodgings. (As a vampire, he didn't require heat or water, so any number of vacant or abandoned buildings would have sufficed … but he didn't feel like living in a dark hole, and he'd need power to keep blood refrigerated, so the process would require at least a modicum of time and care.) For now, he wanted only to look out over the city that would once again be his home, and try to reconcile himself with the events that had brought him to this place.

It didn't have to be Los Angeles … but this was the best compromise of far enough from Buffy to no longer endanger her, and close enough to go to her aid if the need was urgent enough to justify his cursed presence.

_— It's just good to know that when the chips are down and things look grim, you'll feed off the girl who loves you, to save your own ass. —_

He had wavered in the weeks before graduation, presenting a stoic, determined front while agonizing over the temptation to stay. Her mother had made a convincing case, and his own experience with the brevity of human life (never mind a Slayer's!) made him all too aware of how much greater would be the quality of any life that didn't include him. But the need, the _need_ to be with her, to protect her, to find meaning of his own in the purpose that drove her …

And then Faith's poisoned arrow had shown him the truth.

_— It's just good to know —_

A poison with only one cure: to drain the blood of a Slayer. And he had taken that cure.

_— that when the chips are down and things look grim —_

Even if he had taken it from Faith, it would have been unforgivable. From Buffy, it should have been unthinkable, literally impossible for him to hold in his mind.

And yet …

_— you'll feed off the girl who loves you, to save your own ass. —_

No. This was where he was now, this was where he would follow out the desecrated parody of his life. Making such inadequate penance as he could, eternally and irreparably apart from Buffy and everyone else he had known in Sunnydale.

Alone.

As it should be.

As he deserved.


	3. Four Days After

**Four Days After**

viii

"It isn't easy," Buffy said, walking across the immaculately manicured grass of the cemetery.

"I know," Willow agreed. "It's all, wow, we're _alive!_ I've been on a high from that for days … but then I feel guilty about feeling so good, when —"

Buffy nodded. "Yeah. When." This was the first funeral they had attended (and glad to have it behind them), but another three were scheduled over the next four days, and doubtless more to come. "We did what we did, and it worked, which means we saved a lot of people … but other people died from it, and that's gonna take some getting used to."

Willow glanced over at her friend. "Plus, you're dealing with other stuff as well."

"Yeah," Buffy said. Then she looked back to Willow. "Except, I'm not sure we're talking about the same things. What did you mean?"

"Well, there's the whole business of you telling the Council of Watchers you didn't work for them anymore; you have to be wondering how they'll react to that. Did you hear they fired Wesley?"

"I did." Buffy's face showed no trace of sympathy. "Could have saved us all a lot of trouble by firing him _before_ they sent him here. No, I'm not worried about the Council; I'll keep slaying as need requires, and Giles will still send reports, and I have to think me being active on the Hellmouth is more important to them than me following their orders." She sighed. "Right now, my biggest headache is Dawn. She's still being bratty about missing graduation, talking about going on patrol with me when she _knows_ that won't ever happen. Basically, taking her revenge by stirring up trouble. I swear —"

"Actually," Willow broke in, "I was kind of trying to ease into the subject of Angel."

Buffy's face went instantly guarded. "What about him? Have you heard something?"

"No, no, nothing like that." Willow emphatically shook her head. "But he's left now, like he said he would, and I know how much it hurt. I just wondered how you're doing with that."

Buffy didn't answer immediately, and her friend didn't press. After a minute, she stopped at a crypt and sat down on the steps. "If you want to know the truth, it hasn't been that bad."

"Really?" Willow took a seat next to her. "That … wasn't what I was expecting."

"I know," Buffy said. "Especially with the way I carried on when he first told me. When he was dying, though — I mean, whatever you call it when one of the undead is about to become one of the totally-dead — that kind of gave me a new perspective on things. Yeah, he's gone, but he isn't _gone._ He's still out there, somewhere, and that's so much better than how it could have been … I'll deal." She frowned slightly. "Of course, looking at it another way, I'm right back where I was more than a year ago: my first serious boyfriend took off after we'd had sex exactly once."

"Once?" Willow repeated … then, hurriedly, "Well, of course, the curse, don't want to go repeating _that_. But — only once. Wow."

Buffy turned to look at her, curious and then suddenly suspicious. Willow tried to meet her eyes innocently, but the blush started at her throat and worked upward to set her cheeks aflame. "Willow Rosenberg!" Buffy exclaimed. "You _vixen,_ you! When? And why didn't you tell me?"

"The day before graduation," Willow admitted. "And, kind of again right before the ceremony. And you're the first person I _did_ tell — except you guessed before I could work up the nerve — and it's still new and a little bit scary."

"Wait, let me be sure I've got this straight," Buffy insisted. "Two times _before_ graduation? — that means you had twice as much sex in high school as I did!"

"And, uh, a few more times since then." The blush was still there, but the tiny smile also held a certain smugness.

"Vixen cubed," Buffy said, mock-accusing. "So much for you dying a virgin."

Willow shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. "Well, that was never exactly Plan A anyhow."

Buffy pulled Willow to her, put her arm around her. "I'm happy for you," she said. "Which will not at all stop me from being jealous when you start college _with your boyfriend_ and Singleton Buffy is still moping around looking forlorn."

"Forlorn," Willow repeated. "Didn't you slay one of those?" She smiled. "Don't worry, you'll find somebody. You're as big a magnet for guys as for …" She trailed off.

"As for trouble," Buffy finished for her. "Yeah, something to look forward to."

"It could be." Willow pulled away so she could face Buffy squarely. "Two words for you here: _College Guys."_

Buffy sighed. "I know, I know. And I've got the rest of the summer to psych myself up for it." She stood, and Willow rose to join her. "At least I'm done with the drama of being involved with a vampire. No matter what dating disasters are waiting to ambush me, they have to be better than that."

ix  
>(The following segment will have more meaning for those who have read Come to My Window".)<p>

Sheila Martini's was not a naturally happy face. In fact, her typical expression varied from scowl to jeer, with little between. Now, however, it showed a fury barely under control, and Tana Guiette felt her body tingle with the familiar delicious _frisson_ of fear. "What the hell were you thinking?" Sheila was demanding, fists clenched and body tensed as if for attack. "Were you out of your fricken _mind?"_

"Look, I'm sorry," Tana said. "It came up out of nowhere, and there just wasn't time to get in touch with you. And even if I had, you wouldn't have been able to come out until the eclipse anyway, so it really wouldn't have made any difference."

"I could have _been there,"_ Sheila insisted. "God damn it, if I'd had any idea you'd do anything so fricken _stupid —!"_

"Been there?" Tana interrupted. "You'd have … come out and fought on our side?"

Sheila's face went wary, and she snapped, "Don't be any dumber than you have to. I'd've dragged your silly ass _outta_ there, or at least grabbed a coupla snacks for myself before I cut out for some place safer." She moved up next to the hospital bed, looming over Tana. "I'm not _part_ of the whole good-versus-evil bullshit, I keep telling you that. Yeah, I'm evil, but I'm not about to get dusted over it. Which is how you oughtta be thinking: not _in_ their dumb-ass war, let the holy crusaders and the undead fiends kill each other while we live the high life."

Tana settled back on the stacked pillows, used the side-rail controls to tilt the bed upward so she could look at her visitor without strain. Her head still ached — she'd been far too close to the library explosion, but a lick of the flame had consumed the vampire who was carrying her off, so she wasn't about to complain — and with anyone else she would have pretended to be too sedated to talk. "I'm sorry. We were in it together, the whole senior class, and I couldn't let them down. School solidarity … that's not your thing, I knew that. And —" She hesitated, then forged on. "And I didn't know you'd care. You keep saying you don't."

"You're part of the life I got here, you brain-dead bimbo." Sheila's mouth was set in hard lines. "I can party with you, use you to keep up with gossip among the breathers … and you're a steady blood supply, don't forget that. You got no business risking _my_ property without at least talking to me about it!"

"Property?" Tana couldn't hold back the laugh. "Oh, Sheila!"

The other girl leaned over her, her eyes glinting yellow for an instant, and her voice was very soft. "You think this is funny?"

"Right now, _everything_ is funny." Tana shook her head, wincing at the twinges that accompanied the motion. "I'm alive, and that's just hilarious. We blew up the school, and we're the _good_ guys." She put her hand on top of Sheila's. "You're here, swearing at me and insulting me, and I'm so happy to see you I can't even say it, and that's the funniest thing of all."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Sheila said in disgust, but she didn't pull her hand away.

"I'm glad you came."

"I got thirsty," the other girl snapped. "And I find you here in no condition to contribute _anything._ Inconsiderate bitch."

Tana had nothing to say to that, and a silence began and stretched out. At last, in a small voice, she said, "I got a scholarship."

Sheila stared at her. "Huh? What?"

"My folks pulled some strings," Tana explained. "My grades weren't great, but I've done better this last year, and I was really throwing myself into theater —"

"I know," Sheila snapped. "Couldn't get you to shut up about all your big breakout roles." Yes, Sheila had scornfully dismissed Tana's enthusiasms, insisting she wouldn't be caught dead watching community theater … but she _was_ dead, technically, and Tana suspected she might have snuck in to watch a performance or two, even if she'd never admit it. "So?" the other girl demanded.

"And I must have done something right," Tana went on. "Because I got a scholarship. For drama and musical theater."

"Yeah? Where?"

Tana drew a cautious breath. "Sam Houston State University."

"Sam Hous–…?" Sheila's scowl went from perplexed to thunderous. "Texas? You're goin' to college in fricken _Texas?"_

"It's not Sunnydale," Tana pointed out, not quite timidly.

Some of Sheila's ire seemed to subside. "Yeah, there's that," she admitted. "Sunnyhell suits me fine, but …" She looked to Tana. "So, when?"

"The end of August," Tana said, so faintly that only supernatural hearing could have picked out the words.

"Yeah?" Sheila pulled her hand away, stood back. "Well, good for you. Have a great summer."

"I will," Tana said as the other girl turned away. "If you won't leave me."

_"What?"_ Sheila stopped, looking back at her. "I'm not moving to goddamn Texas."

"I know." Tana held out her hand. "But we still have till August."

"Oh, my aching ass." Sheila stared at the outstretched hand but made no move to reach for it. "Ah, what the hell. Gimme a call when you get outta the hospital, maybe we can talk then."

Again she started to turn away, and again Tana called, "Just … before you go …" Sheila gave her an exasperated glance, and Tana whispered, _"… Please …?"_

"For the love of —" Sheila moved back to the bedside, looked down at her with a critically analytical eye. "You can't spare it."

"So don't take much." Tana turned her head on the pillow to bare her throat. "But … that doesn't mean you need to rush."

Graduation. Endings, and new beginnings.

Some things, though, she wasn't ready to leave behind just yet.

x

Harmony Kendall was not outstandingly smart. She knew this about herself. When she remembered to try, however, she could usually manage to be just smart _enough._ Usually. Whether or not this would be one of those times … well, that was still up in the air.

The loser who had found her in the sewers when she awoke (rose?) had latched onto her and done his best to convince her that he was her sire and her only hope for survival was to obey him and follow his guidance. Please: she remembered perfectly well that it had been a _girl_ who bit her, plus she had years of experience in telling when someone was pretending to know, and be, more than he actually had on hand to deliver. That same experience had taught her the value of playing along, however; so, she'd acted dumb — and they always bought it! — and, between episodes of enthusiastic but _un_spectacular sex, during which she labored mightily to both show him a mind-blowingly good time and convince him that she believed he was ten times as good in bed as he actually was, she learned everything she could about the rules and conditions of her new 'life' until, after two days, it was time to slip the ties and strike out on her own.

Some of the guidelines, she could simply _feel_. Others, she knew from too much time spent listening to guys go on about comic books and Hammer films. Some, though, she'd managed to glean from her would-be master … such as, just now, the fact that she needed an invitation before entering anyone's home. Even if it was also _her_ home.

Okay. Showtime. Harmony uncapped the bottle of cheap whiskey she'd got from the liquor store (after throwing that jerk of a clerk completely through the shelves, and she'd have drunk _him_ if she hadn't already been full), took a long pull and gargled with it before swallowing, and then splashed some on her clothes: screw it, they'd been in the _sewers,_ she'd burn 'em once she got inside to raid her old wardrobe. Then she stretched out on her front lawn and began singing. Faintly at first — let it build — and then with increasing volume.

It took longer than she'd expected, but eventually, inevitably, the front door opened and her mother peered out at the spectacle Harmony had created. Melody Kendall looked haggard and pale, but mostly thunderstruck, and she rushed outside, shrieking, "Harmony! Oh, my God, where have you been? I was worried out of my _mind —!"_

Harmony levered up on one elbow, waving the bottle and grinning as witlessly as she could. "Hi, Mama. Woo, what are _you_ doin' here?"

"What am I …?" Melody stopped before her daughter, worry and relief beginning to give way to wrath. "I looked everywhere for you, I've haunted the police station, I looked at bodies in the morgue! I thought you were _dead."_

"Dead?" Harmony giggled, as part of the act and because this was _fun_. She took another long swallow, and produced the best belch she could. "Partyin'," she corrected cheerfully. "Graduation party. Lots 'n' lotsa booze. I … I think I mighta had maybe a little too much … but, but I'm good now!"

Melody closed her eyes, took a deep, deep breath. "Happy," she said levelly. "I'm happy now. I'm not about to beat my only daughter with a tennis racket, because I'm so happy I can hardly contain myself." She opened her eyes, reached down to take Harmony's arms and begin pulling her upright. "Come on, let's get you inside." She wrinkled her nose. "And washed up. Where in heaven's name have you been?"

"I dunno," Harmony slurred. "Warehouse or somethin'. But then we had a bonfire out at the city dump, I mighta fallen down a coupla times …" She'd been going where her mother steered, resisting only enough to make herself seem unsteady on her feet, but she stopped at the door, peering ahead as if barely able to focus. "What? No, I don' wanna go inside. I want … Chinese! Le's go out for Chinese!"

"Harmony," her mother said, voice tight, "you get in this house _right this instant,_ or so help me God I'll ground you till you hit menopause!"

Harmony smiled foolishly (invitation! YES!), and said, "Okay, Mama. I guess I really could use a bath 'fore I go anywhere."

By the time she was finally put to bed, Harmony was getting more than a little annoyed with her mother's solicitude, even if it felt good to have somebody wait on her and take care of her and, well, care. The never-married Melody had labored ferociously to see that her fatherless daughter lacked for nothing, whether material advantage or the assurance that she was loved, and it seemed that even anger at that daughter's four-day absence wasn't enough to break those habits. A part of the transformed Harmony looked on her mother's overwhelming relief with a distant contempt, and that same part seemed to think that slaughtering the woman would be … well, _proper_ … as a beginning for this new existence. That would be dumb, though. Sewers and crypts were for losers, and until Harmony could work up something better, her former home would be a nice place to hang out.

In fact, if she played it right, she might be able to _keep_ coming back, now and then, as a change of pace or for emergency shelter. She didn't know yet how she'd explain never going out in the day — or letting sunlight touch her! — and she'd need to at least pretend to eat, and there were a lot of other details she hadn't _begun_ to figure out, but having a 'home' to come back to might turn out to be really handy.

Harmony Kendall was not outstandingly smart. She knew how to spot an advantage, though, and work it, and this was an advantage she wasn't about to throw away.


	4. the Week After

**the Week After**

xi

The meeting was like so many that had preceded it: a gathering of minor functionaries, knowing themselves to be so, with little power or authority and almost as little imagination. And, once again, the task was to deal with the negative repercussions of something they hadn't initiated and didn't understand.

As the senior member of the city council, Joseph Roemer was the one presiding. "I've looked through the city charter," he told the others, "and I'm afraid the lines of succession are … well, not as comprehensive as we might have liked. Somebody has to serve as mayor pro tem, until we can have a special election, but there are no provisions for a situation like this."

Without looking up, Marian Cox said, "Of the bunch of us, Adán probably has the best grasp of what's going on. I propose that we appoint him. Anybody?"

There were nods of approval here and there; nobody was exactly scrambling for the top spot. Adán Garcia, the City Manager, looked glum, but said, "I'll give it a shot if we're in agreement. But how _soon_ can we have an election?"

"It'll be at least six weeks," Roemer said. "We'll get a committee on that right away. Meanwhile, Roger? what's the situation with the high school?"

"Total loss," Roger Pollard shot back. "What did you expect?"

"I know that," Roemer said in return. "But we have to figure out what we're going to do with _next_ year's high school class. You're the liaison with the school board, so I want any suggestions you may have."

"Oh," Pollard said. "Sorry. Mm … I'd say, filter everything down. Move the fourth graders down into the primary school with the first three grades, junior high students down into the elementary school with the fifth and sixth graders — they won't like it, but hey, tough — and the high schoolers take over the junior high." He shrugged. "At least that building is fairly new."

"And some people will move, take their kids on to other school districts." This was Larry Petersen, who had spent three years as little more than a seat-warmer. "That always happens, after …"

He trailed off, but imagination filled in the rest. _After one of the bizarre disasters that seem to occur five or six times a year._ It was unnecessary for anyone to say it aloud. "Well, at least the city budget is in good shape," Alfred Tunnell pointed out. "Whichever way we go, we should be solid on funding."

"Good." Roemer shook his head. "It'll be next fiscal year, at least, before we can even start on new construction, but we can be getting agreements and drawing up contracts. All of this … it's a shock, and we're having to take quick action, but aside from the immediacy it's all relatively routine. But there's one matter …"

"Oh, hell," said Carolyn Seaver, the impossible red hair a startling contrast to the pallor of her face. "This has to do with Dick Wilkins, doesn't it?"

Roemer held up a placating hand. "Yes, but not directly. I'm ready to do this on my own authority, but I wanted to let you all know, so that I'm not forcing anything. I've arranged for someone to clear out various … materials … from the Mayor's offices." He looked around, his expression flat. "Most of what's there, I don't know what it is and I don't want to know. I just want it all gone, and Mr Giles assures me that he knows the proper means of dealing with —" He stopped, coughed. "With such … things."

"Giles," Seaver repeated, her expression suddenly alert. "Isn't he —?"

"The high school librarian," Roemer confirmed. "And, as such, a city employee already. However, I think we can consider this outside his normal duties, on which basis I offered him a special commission. Unless someone else would rather handle the matter?"

No one did. Roemer hadn't expected that they would. Like anyone else who had chosen to live in Sunnydale, the members of the city government had a deep-set awareness of which areas they were better off avoiding. Only duty had carried Roemer even as far as he had gone: one look at the shelves in Wilkins' office, and he had hastily closed the doors again; fifteen minutes' quick skimming of the file labeled PENDING EVENTS, and he had been more than willing to accept Rupert Giles' offer to take it all off his hands.

Still, Roemer reflected as he looked to the next item on the agenda, he really ought to ask Giles just what exactly 'plague limpets' and 'cruitl hatching' _were_. In case some quick action was necessary.

Such as moving to Australia.

xii  
>(The following segment has references that will make more sense to those who have read<br>"Whisper of a Moment" and "the Still, Small Voice".)

There were two big things about hospitals. The first was that you could go many places as long as you looked like you knew your destination. The second was that you could go almost _anywhere_ if you wore a white lab coat, carried a clipboard, and kept your personal appearance acceptably professional. With black-framed eyeglasses and her hair twisted back into a bun, Willow walked briskly down the hallway toward Sunnydale General's IT room. The fifteen-year-old girl who had once dreaded confrontation, or even attention, still lived inside her in part, but that part was layered under memories of face-on combat with vampires, breaking into the city morgue to do a personal autopsy, distracting staff in this same hospital by feigning frog hallucinations. No hesitation showed in her expression, only preoccupation and no-nonsense purpose.

This was business, but it was also personal. Faith had directly, individually threatened Willow, Buffy, Xander, Angel … only Giles and Cordelia had been exempted, if only by being relegated to the larger massacre that had been planned for the entire school. Willow had heard the initial reports indicating essentially zero probability that the dark Slayer would ever emerge from the coma that gripped her. As far as Willow was concerned, zero was still too big a risk. She wasn't about to take anything for granted; she intended to _know._

Ahead of her, the elevator _ding!_ed and opened. Willow recognized the man who stepped out, and raised the clipboard as if to peer more closely at a line of very small print, obscuring the lower part of her face. Father Nolan, she'd met with him often enough that he might recognize her, she could always claim she was doing volunteer work in computer support … Her heart lurched as she saw the priest stop short at the sight of her; he stared, even took a step back as if startled or fearful. She passed him with a murmured apology, pulse hammering, and went on with every appearance of confidence that she could project through body language.

The way he'd looked at her … could he tell, did he _know_ she'd been having sex? by something in her face, or even in the way she walked? Ohgodohgodohgod —

_Get a grip, Rosenberg!_ She turned the nearest corner, continued on her chosen path. Catholic guilt had nothing on nice-Jewish-girl guilt, but she had a job to do here, and she wasn't about to be distracted.

The door she needed was ahead. A security card was required to get in; she could have had one made, by pulling enough strings, but it had been simpler to hack into the hospital's system and instruct it to accept and approve the information from the magnetic strip on her Blockbuster card. Once inside, she was ready to duck into the alcove where the routers were stored (she had the schematics) or bluff her way through with IT-talk more than adequate to show her expertise. The server room was empty, however, so she was able to settle straight in to work.

She could tap into the hospital network any time she wanted, but that was broad strokes; Sunnydale General's systems weren't fully integrated yet, and some of the records she would need were sequestered in non-networked systems. She opened her laptop, ran a cable from it to the main server, and began tracing connections. In the router section, she used three cables to add connections where none had previously existed, then added another three to set up alternate channels in case of misadventure. Now everything she needed to know could be accessed remotely, at her convenience.

Back at her laptop, she began testing the channels, confirming that it all worked the way she'd intended. Easier, if she'd had the money and knew who to approach, to just pay someone in the hospital to call them if Faith ever showed any sign of waking. She had neither the cash nor the knowledge necessary, though, and when it came right down to it, Willow put more trust in systems she could control. Now that the connections were established, she would write programs to track and collate every file recording any aspect of Faith's treatment or condition (huh, her surname was listed as Lehane, was that real or was it an alias the Mayor had set up?), and use comparison algorithms to send up a flag whenever any collection of interrelated symptoms even hinted at prospective recovery. It would take at least a few weeks to collect a sufficient baseline of reports, and no doubt she would have to tweak the tracking programs on a regular basis — which meant, don't let college distract her from keeping up with all that! — but she had no doubt that this particular early-warning system would be more than worth the effort …

All right, all looking good. Various records were already being unearthed, assimilated, and integrated for composite analysis. Blood gases, ECG, EEG, electrolytes, even urine output (ew!) … She would need to work a medical database into the warning program, but that was nothing compared to some of the programming she'd done just as a hobby. She had only a general idea of what most of these things meant, and none at all on some — CBC, BUN, creatinine, Na/K/Cl/Ca balances — so a certain amount of self-education would be necessary, maybe she could actually work that into some of her college course-work …

Okay, hold on, _that_ one looked familiar: HCG, what was that? She'd seen it somewhere, or read it in scientific journals, or maybe even in television commercials. It nagged at her, it was intolerable to know she knew something and not be able to call it up, she did a fast online search … right, human chorionic gonadotropin, used to test for … and track … and confirm …

Oh, God.

She stared at the lab results, a cascade of memories and inferences crashing through her numbed brain. In the course of less than two minutes, all of Willow Rosenberg's plans and imperatives underwent radical alteration, and something inside her turned dark and forbidding and very, very cold.

She didn't yet know precisely what she was going to do, though a faint framework of intention and necessity was already beginning to take ghostly form in the back her mind. Too many things were yet to be determined, too many choices would require deep, searing reflection. One item leaped immediately to the forefront, however, impulse instantly transmuting into decision. Willow called up a particular electronic document, and in a vital field she added a single entry, using one finger to stab three different keys in forceful, deliberate sequence:

D.

N.

R.

xiii  
>(The following segment will have more meaning for those<br>who have read "Shadow and Substance".)

She arrived with the twilight, a pale woman dressed in vintage clothing, her thick white hair in a long braid and blue-lensed sunglasses protecting her eyes against the fading light in the sky. The ruins of Sunnydale High School had been fenced off with plastic orange netting strung from metal T-posts; the rubble no longer smoked, but a psychic-mystical miasma still hung over it. Part of that would be Hellmouth emanations, and some the residue from the previous week's cataclysm … but there was also old, old evil suffusing the soil, and the insensate memories of uncounted tragedies.

She herself was the result of one of these. She did not squander any of her time in grief — that was long behind her — but busied herself instead with purpose. She cleared the barrier with ease, and her booted feet carried her smoothly and surely through broken stone and masonry, earth littered with the diamond twinkles of shattered glass, and (here and there) clumps of charred, decaying Olvikan/Mayor-carcass. She knew the spot she wanted … but the spot itself had shifted with the demolition of the building, and the best she could do was to place herself at the vertical axis of the proper location.

She looked upward, eyes fixed on the mid-air spot where a fleeing woman had died, over a year before. Unreachable, once the floors had collapsed, but this was near enough. She pulled supplies from the bag she carried, and placed them with practiced dexterity: candles, a pair of crystals, fragments of bone, a diagram laid out in lines of gray-blue powder. She lit the candles and intoned the chant in the ancient words of her people, then stood, probing the gathering darkness with every last fading wisp of magickal potential her body still held, all her senses seeking … anything.

There was nothing.

She left the diagram and materials where they lay: useless for her, they likewise would offer nothing to anyone who found them. It had always been an insubstantial hope, that she might be able to find a means of resurrecting herself by working some as-yet-undeveloped ritual at the site of her own death; with that site now obliterated, even the distant chance was gone. And, with it, the last reason for her to remain in Sunnydale.

Somewhere within the city limits was a man who lo–… who had once loved her. She had gone to great lengths to avoid being seen by him in her current unclean state (even to changing her appearance so that she wouldn't be recognized in the event of an unexpected encounter), and likewise taken pains to not see _him,_ even from hiding, for the sorrow of what she had lost was a never-ending ache better left unprodded. She had remained in this city, risking exposure, while she searched out every remote possibility of cleansing rebirth for herself. Following ever-fainter paths, scorching her soul with manipulation and betrayal, turning her interior self into something so dark and tainted as to match the flesh she now inhabited.

That was done now. Out in the wider world, there were other nodes of knowledge to explore, and she had endless time to search them out. The promise there was vague, but here there was none. More than that, her newer quest would include attempts — again, potentially eternal — to make amends, to grope her way back to some semblance of … not righteousness, but perhaps decency.

Mouth set, expression showing nothing, eyes masked behind the blue lenses, the pale woman who had once borne another name, whose heart had once beat with dedication and passion and even whimsy, turned her back to the past and looked toward the blank, unreadable future that stretched out before her.


	5. Ten Days After

**Ten Days After**

xiv

The rental car was compact, efficient, economical, and deathly boring. It both matched and exacerbated Wesley Wyndham-Pryce's present mood, and it held the meager collection of possessions he had brought to this appalling city. He was on the move, for the bleak message had come from the Council of Watchers while he was still being assessed to rule out spinal damage, its content terse, immediate, and unambiguous.

Sacked.

Almost precisely a matter of kicking a man while he was down, but at the same time it was neither surprising nor entirely unjustified. Wesley had been well aware, even before beginning, that the responsibility entrusted to him well exceeded his likely capacities, but it had been a charge he could not possibly decline. His failures had begun to mount from the moment of his arrival, and while the first — his panic under Balthazar's threats — had been unquestionably the worst, there had been no respite from their continued appearance.

As to the most recent … he honestly didn't know whether the result of his miserable attempt at combat during Graduation stung more, or less, than the debacle of the kiss with Cordelia. Weeks of dreaming, of _fantasizing,_ exploded in an instant by the cold dash of reality.

Time, then, to leave.

Not back to England, for he was not remotely prepared to face those he had known among the Watchers, still occupied in the essential labours from which he had been so coldly dismissed. In point of fact, he had no destination, he merely wanted to be finally quit of Sunnydale. He would drive (but not to Los Angeles, the very thought made him wince, the absolute worst of America distilled into one enormous mass of grating stereotypes) until he saw ocean, and then find a place to stop, and relax, and try to let some of the bitterness seep out of his system.

No destination. No plans. No discernible future.

It would be a long, barren summer, and he had no faintest notion of what he would do once it ended.

xv

She met him at the gate of the mansion (a modest mansion, but it qualified), and when he stopped and rolled down the window, she demanded, "Did you bring what I told you? And, God, _this_ is what you're driving?"

'This' was a 1981 AMC Gremlin with no hubcaps and a bile-yellow paint job (except for one white fender on the passenger's side). A steady ticking emanated from the engine, with occasional sputters. "Sorry to sully the family estate with my lowbrow transport," Xander said evenly. "If it meant that much to you, you could've picked me up yourself."

"Right," Cordelia scoffed. "No car, remember?"

Xander cocked his head. "Oh. Right. Sorry. Yeah, I brought the pike and the crossbow. You sure this is something we can handle ourselves?"

"I'm always sure." Cordelia turned and pulled the gate open. "You can check it out for yourself if you don't believe me."

Xander eased the Gremlin inside, and Cordelia swung the gate closed behind them. "I noticed you didn't use the keypad," he observed. "Why have a security system if you don't keep it running?"

Cordelia opened the passenger's door and got in next to him. She did not actually shudder when her body touched the seat, but her air was of someone very prominently _not_ saying something. "No power," she said. "The city shut it off after my parents split town. Then two weeks ago they padlocked the gate."

Xander moved down the long drive at low speed, pulled up in front of the house. "So what happened to the padlock?"

"Bolt cutter," Cordelia said tersely. "Look, can we get on with this?"

Xander popped the hatchback; the rear seat had been laid down so the short pike would fit diagonally. He withdrew the crossbow, pulled back the whipcord string with a grunt and secured it, and placed a quarrel in the channeled groove along the top. "Here," he said, passing the loaded weapon to Cordelia, and took up the pike for himself. "So where is the thing you were talking about?"

"Upstairs." She led him inside; the BANK OWNED PROPERTY sticker sealing the front door had been torn down the center, and inside the air had a stale taste to it. There was enough light from various windows that they had no trouble making their way up the staircase, but even within the first minute, a faint sheen of perspiration had begun to show on their faces and arms from the absence of air conditioning. "I got most of what I needed already, but this one closet —"

The closet was a walk-in, and perhaps two-thirds the size of Xander's bedroom at home. The rich scent of cedar had wafted out the door when Cordelia opened it; she stepped back, readied the crossbow, and said, "You first."

"Fools rush in," Xander mused, "so I guess that's why you called me. What're we looking at here?"

"About the size of a cocker spaniel," Cordelia told him. "Skin like a toad's. It'll try to bite — luckily, I had on boots the first time, it couldn't get through the leather — but I haven't seen any other natural weapons. Unless the bite is poisoned." She shook her head. "Look, it's a nuisance, okay? If I was really worried, I'd have got in touch with Saint Buffy. But it's too quick for me to handle by myself." As Xander started to step inside, she added, "Oh, yeah, it can climb the walls, so be sure to watch out above the door frame."

Xander drew back with a sharp yelp of indrawn breath, then reached inside with the pike to probe blindly at the area indicated. Then, with a wary upward glance, he moved past the threshold, keeping the pike ready. "It had to be this closet?" he asked Cordelia. "Whatever you want from here, it must really be important."

"I'm leaving town," Cordelia said to him. "I hung on through graduation, I stayed at the shop for another week to build up my emergency fund, but I have _no_ future in this town. I can take only so much with me, and there's a classic black cocktail dress that is _utterly indispensible,_ and there might be a few other items I wouldn't want to leave behind, so man up and help me kill this stupid home-invading Ugly Thing while we still have enough daylight to see it."

The creature had five legs, an ovoid eye placed on its squat body above each leg. Suckers tipped its feet, allowing it to skitter along the walls and ceiling with a fair degree of speed. Xander danced along the length of the closet, jabbing upward but never quite connecting … but Cordelia, tracking ahead, nailed it just off center-mass with the crossbow, and Xander used the pike to finish the thing. "Drag it down!" she commanded instantly. _"Drag it down,_ it's drizzling goo on the clothes!"

In the end, along with the cocktail dress, Cordelia chose two other dresses and two complete outfits. "This means I'm going to have to trade some things out," she said. "Come on around back with me."

Xander did, uncomplaining, but when they arrived at a medium-sized cottage a hundred feet from the main house, he said, "Okay, I just have to know: what's the deal here?"

"This is where I've been staying," Cordelia told him, her expression daring any hint of criticism. "The groundskeeper lived here with his family, and Daddy had the electricity set up on a separate circuit so they'd pay for it themselves. They had to move, but …" She shrugged. "Power still works — probably for not much longer — so I moved in."

"You've been living here?" Xander's eyebrows went up. "All this time? But … with no car, how were you getting to school? And work?"

"City bus till I got close enough," Cordelia said flatly. "Then I walked the rest of the way so nobody could _actually see_ my humiliation."

"But …" He frowned. "But the nearest bus-stop has to be a mile from here."

Cordelia tossed off a scornful shrug. "Yeah. What about it?"

"Well, that would explain why your legs still look so good." The smile was easy and unstrained. He followed her inside the cottage. "What I'm not totally understanding, though, is what you need me for now that your own personal closet-monster has been vanquished."

Cordelia laid the clothes she had extracted onto the couch in the small living room, then turned to face him. "The whole Kerouac on-the-road thing you were talking about a few weeks ago: are you still doing that?"

Xander nodded. "Very much yes to that. In fact, that's why I got the Gremlin. I know I'll have to get a job sooner or later — I can already hear the fast food industry whispering its siren call, or maybe I can luck into the exciting world of aluminum siding sales — but I'm gonna have me one fun summer before settling into the grind." He shrugged. "I'd actually planned to be gone a couple of days ago, but Gizmo needed a new oil pan, so …"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll have plenty of time to be bored to tears, which I know is your specialty." Cordelia put her hands on her hips. "I want to come with you."

"You …?" Xander took a half-step backward, as if he'd been knocked slightly off-balance. "I mean … huh?"

"I'm moving to Los Angeles," Cordelia went on steadily. "I have money put away for the bus ticket there, and I'll check the price from wherever we go to make sure I don't travel outside my price range. But this year has been _grim,_ and I'm like you, I want a little decompressing time for myself before I buckle down to the process of achieving my inevitable superstardom." She put her finger on his chest, as if pinning him in place. "You owe me. I'm collecting. Got it?"

Xander opened and closed his mouth a few times, and then his expression firmed. "Yeah," he said. "I got it."

Cordelia studied his face, her own showing nothing. "I really did love you," she stated matter-of-factly.

He nodded. "I know that, yeah. And I'm still sorry for how I —"

"I don't anymore," she interrupted.

"That memo, too, did arrive," he acknowledged with a sigh.

"Good," she said. "Because that means you can understand that this is about _closure."_ And she took his face in her hands and delivered a long, molten kiss that left him gasping.

Then, in the cottage's main bedroom, the two of them put some more work into effecting the needed closure. And, after half an hour of drowsy, wordless cuddling under the ceiling fan, they began another installment.

Against all expectations, even her own, Cordelia Chase had somehow retained her virginity through the end of high school. (Any round-heels could get sweaty in some random back seat; Queen C had always been determined that her own transformative event would be an _event._) There was absolutely no way she would have carried that status with her to Los Angeles … and, after the crash-and-burn with Wesley, any pre-emptive strike could only be with the first man she had genuinely loved.

And she would also use it to work him completely out of her system, for good and all. She would travel with him, sharing motel rooms and diner food, until she knew she was ready to put her old life behind her and seize the new one by the throat. And that might take just a little longer than she had originally planned … because … because …

Oh, God! who would ever have suspected? The man was an absolute _Viking_ in the sack!

xvi

"This was the first time I could come to see you," Joyce Summers said to the girl in the bed. "I understand they knew after the first day that you would survive, but it took this long for you to get out of … not intensive care, the stage below that, but still more restricted than where you are now. And I'm afraid I wasn't entirely honest with them about how we knew each other. If there were anyone to object, I probably wouldn't be allowed on the visitors list; but, since you don't have any family anyone can locate, a former unofficial foster-parent is better than nothing, right?"

There was no reply. Nor would there be, of course. It wasn't even really the girl in the bed that Joyce was talking to … but she wasn't entirely _not_ talking to her either. Even if this was only a one-way conversation, there were issues that needed to be addressed.

"I welcomed you into my home. There was a selfish element there, I won't deny that. Even apart from the possibility that you might be able to replace Buffy, or at least take on the brunt of her duties, I thought having someone to fight alongside her — someone with as much power as she has — could only help her. There was more to it than that, though: I _liked_ you. You were brash and brazen and brave and … I'd worked so hard to provide a good home, and then worried so long about Buffy once I learned of her calling, it was just indescribably refreshing to have someone around who so totally lived in the moment. Openly, no apologies, obviously relishing it. You were what I couldn't be, didn't even really want to be, but having you in our lives meant I could enjoy it by second-hand exposure.

"That's what I want to be sure you understand. I welcomed you into my home, and I meant it.

"According to the doctors, you'll never wake up. Naturally, doctors say all kinds of things, with complete authority and conviction, that turn out differently. And they don't know anything about Slayer healing, do they? But they do say you'll never wake up, and Buffy seems willing to accept that assurance.

"I'm not sure I am.

"She warned me about you, you know, when she first knew for sure that you'd gone over to the Mayor. Vampires were bad enough, but you're something designed by fate to be even deadlier than vampires, aren't you? Besides which, you didn't need an invitation to come into my house. She warned me, and then qualified it with all the reasons there was probably no reason to worry, I wouldn't be a target, you mainly wanted to kill _her_ …

"Seriously. She actually thought that would be reassuring to me.

"You wanted to kill her. You tried to kill her. In a way, that just made you one more threat, one of the things she's been beating for, what? three years now? I didn't like it, but it wasn't actually anything I hadn't been living with since the end of her junior year.

"But you've been in my home. Unlike most of the things out there, you know me. I struggled so hard to make myself trust Buffy, trust her judgment in the insane world she occupies, I let myself not see part of the truth. _You know me._ It might have struck you as a good idea to come to our house looking for a hostage, try and use me against Buffy; it's been done before, and it almost worked. You didn't, but I didn't think of the possibility, not then, and that was a failure of my responsibilities as a mother.

"I love Buffy. She's my daughter, and I love her. But … she isn't the only daughter I have. And, someday, you might wake up. Someday, I might have to worry about you taking Dawn, instead of me. Buffy can fight for herself. Dawn can't. That's my job.

"I welcomed you into my home, and I meant it. You almost died, and I'm at least a little glad you didn't. But you might wake up someday, and I don't know if I can afford to risk that. Risk my little girl's life on her sister's vigilance, or on it not occurring to you to come after us."

She stood from the chair she had drawn up next to the hospital bed, and reached out to stroke the silent girl's face. "I may have to kill you. I came to tell you that, and to see if looking at you helped me make up my mind. It hasn't, not yet, but I'm not about to let the matter go. I'll be back again to visit you tomorrow, and probably for quite a while after that. Every time, I'll think about how much it would cost to act, and how much it might cost to not act, and every day I'll consider my decision."

She went to the door, stopped with her hand on the knob and looked back. "I'm still on the fence. I honestly am. But if I ever decide that it's a choice between my daughters or you … it'll be you, Faith. And I'll apologize to you before I put the pillow over your face, but I won't let pity stop me.

"So sleep well, until I come to see you tomorrow."

—

end

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><p><em>Special acknowledgment:<em> The Xander/Cordelia segment was freely inspired by sam_arkand's story "School's Out" (found on LiveJournal). I like my version, but his came first and is well worth reading.


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